For The record
by Ananke
Summary: Chakotay talks. Janeway might not like what he says.


Disclaimer: ST: VOY and all related characters owned by Paramount Studios, no  
copyright infringement intended.

---  
_Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's  
why people are so cynical about it.. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for.  
And the trouble is, if you don't risk everything, you risk even more.  
Erica Jong_  
---

For the record.

I walked in on broken glass this morning, Kathryn, broken glass strewn across your smiling face. There was no blood, of course, holos don't bleed. Somehow, the lack made the situation all the more authentic feeling. Seven **was** bleeding, holding the glass in her fingers, staring downward with her own peculiar brand of sober amusement. It didn't take a genius to see that she had knocked the picture over, whether by accident or otherwise I have no idea. She heard me come in, and spoke.

"Do not concern yourself. The frame and film both seem to be damage resistant." Standing, she brushed off her slacks, leaving startling, intermittent trails of red on the light cloth. Her eyes were cold, dispassionate, containing a distance I hadn't seen in a long time, a very long time. The voice was the same. "Her image will remain untarnished."

Fitting irony. I've read the news reports, heard them, we both have. You happen to be a hero, untouchable by doubt or recrimination. You look so frail and tired and woeful in the clips, your most bemused. Your eyes seem to plead for support, and I'm wise enough to recognize their true target. Me.

I can't be there for you anymore, Kathryn. Not the way you want me to, not the way you've come to expect, not as a prop oasis in a desert under your command. You may accuse me with your silences, your looks-of giving up, of backing off, of not holding out just a little longer. You would be right in saying those things, I did tire of it, I got sick of waking up every morning alone and going to sleep every night alone, and realizing that nothing in the hours between made my life worth continuing.

When I came aboard Voyager all those years ago I told you I wouldn't be your token Maquis officer. You smiled at me, that indulgent little smile we all grew to hate with a passion, and agreed. Agreed with my ire, with my indignation, or just with the amusement you felt within? I think we both know it was the latter. You were fascinated by me, by the trite tradition I represented, by my Maquis history, background you admired only because you had never been forced to live it yourself. I sometimes think you might have even feared me initially, fretted over slashed throats in the middle of a lonely night. Maybe you were hoping for a savage Indian to take you and claim you and bend you. I disappointed you in the end with my reserve and my smiles and my gentleness, you've never liked gentleness, never admired it.

Initially my respectable front amused you and then my lack of backbone amused you more, but eventually you came to despise both of those traits every bit as much as your controlling side preened over their convenience.

I thought New Earth was a turning point, that I was back on solid ground. Without Starfleet, I was in control, I knew the tricks and I called the shots and spirits, how you chafed at that. You would have spent the rest of your life searching for a way out had the plasma storm not interfered.

I make it sound as if I hated you. I did, at times, but it was mostly pity, and more love than I knew what to do with. We were mismatched as a command team and mismatched on every other level, but you always believed in alchemy, making a refined product from incompatible raw materials. Scientist in you, I suppose. And as much pain as you caused me, I believed in your belief and waited patiently, praying to spirits I no longer believed in that you'd figure out the magic formula and someday the twains would meet. They never did, and eventually even the command relationship showed the strain. Species 8472 came along and you realized our goals weren't the same after all, and then Seven came along and you thought you had a leg over on all of us, me, the universe, fate-

I didn't want any part of her at the time, but I had to appreciate the irony of your decision as well. The one thing you embraced to prove your point just had to be the most destructive thing in the universe. You were holding a time bomb in your elegant little hands and naturally assumed it would tick in your favor. You used her, poorly, and I remain amazed that she responded as charitably as she did. But then, how could she have done otherwise? You petted Seven of Nine, and adored her, and taught her your tricks...but never well enough that they could come back to destroy you. You taught her false trust and false innocence, and now, Kathryn, you seek to blame her for destroying it.

I was wrong, and weak, and I did become your token Maquis, but by the time I realized it I also realized I was too far gone to change it. You commanded. I provided background, and spirits, did I match the totem wood.

I took pleasure in Seven long before she became interested in me, took pleasure in her small rebellions and the rare but enlivening doubt in her eyes when she looked at you sometimes. She analyzed you with her Borg coldness, and stored your weaknesses for reference, but she never used the references against you. There you have the difference. Seven loves without demand. You know nothing of giving without receiving.

I never stop loving you, Kathryn. It's not a command inconvenience to be pushed away. I just got better at hiding it, and better at moving past it. You were everything I thought I needed once. I know otherwise now, and that's partly why I'm with Seven, but only partly. She's a beautiful person inside who spreads the  
warmth, and it's been a long time since I've cared enough to see that sort of inner light in anyone, especially myself. Better than that, she can empathize, and help me build my walls and nurse my wounds with dignity.

If for nothing else, I suppose that's why I'm writing you this letter.

For the record.

For my dignity, to prove that I still have some, and that I wasn't walking dead all those years, like some of the media says. I watched, I heard, I knew. I loved. I still do. I've just learned to love someone else, and even with half the galaxy doubting-it's enough. I'm happy. Seven is very happy.

We both sincerely hope you can claim the same someday.

Laurels for the Queen, Kathryn. Just don't build a noose with them.


End file.
